Chapter 31: The Same Impossible Luck
Chapter 31: The Same Impossible Luck
The apartment became smaller with every hour I stayed inside it.
Leaving would have been worse. Eastbridge had already searched the building and dismissed it as a scavenger den. My meat and the dead survivor’s tins could last until Blind Call recovered. Outside, patrols still followed the reservoir road and checked the surrounding blocks.
I stayed because the decision made sense. That did not make it pleasant.
I divided the meat into portions and cooked only what I needed. When two pieces developed a sour smell, I threw them into the weeds behind the building. Hunger argued. Aria’s warning won.
The ember became my most important possession. I banked it beneath ash in the deeper pot, fed it splinters, and woke twice each night to check it. My fires stayed no larger than two fists. I used dry wood, opened the window for airflow, and cooked during grey daylight when a little smoke had somewhere to disappear.
I watched Eastbridge lose interest in me.
Two vehicles patrolled the reservoir road on the first morning. The next day, there was one. Foot patrols searched east and north without returning to my street. On the third day, a truck rolled past without slowing.
Six hundred and four credits. Apparently I am worth less than the fuel required to recover me.
The rifle received two hours of practice each day and none of its ammunition.
Magazine out. Magazine in. Charging handle. Shoulder the stock. Find the sights. Hold until my arms began to wander. Lower it before exhaustion turned the weapon into dead weight.
My best hold reached eleven seconds.
Reloading still exposed Poor Coordination in humiliating detail. If I moved slowly, I could manage it. When I tried to hurry, the magazine missed the well or slipped from my hand. Once it bounced off my knee and vanished beneath the mattress.
I tested the rest of Level 7 with equal honesty. Three trips up and down the stairs left me breathing hard but upright. A forty-centimeter drop from the windowsill sent my ankles in different directions and my shoulder into the wardrobe.
The level had improved me. My debuffs decided how much of that improvement reached the world.
I kept records on the plaster beneath the dead survivor’s marks. Patrol times. Remaining food. How long I could hold the rifle before the front sight wandered. I added the Blind Call countdown every six hours even though the interface already displayed it perfectly.
Writing the numbers made time feel like something I was reducing through effort.
On the second night, rain moved over the district. I put every pot beneath the broken window and collected enough water to fill my bottles. The sound covered my movements, but it also covered anything climbing the stairs. I spent most of the storm sitting behind the barricade with the military knife ready, watching water crawl beneath the wardrobe.
Nothing came.
By morning, another six hours had disappeared from the countdown.
I did not hunt. On the second afternoon, the idea presented itself with excellent arguments: weak monsters meant experience, and experience meant strength. I remembered the tunnel scavengers, my eleven-second aim, and the fact that I had never fired the rifle. The idea was rejected.
Instead, I practiced moving from the barricade to the back window with my pack. The first attempt took forty seconds and ended with the rifle strap caught on the bed frame. By the sixth, I could reach the sill in eighteen without knocking anything over.
Night was the hardest part. Every cooling joist sounded like weight on the stairs. I woke with my hand on the rifle and listened until the house became a house again.
On the third night, I sat with my back against the wardrobe and watched the recovery timer enter its final minute.
It was the same hour at which Aria had returned to her gate seventy-two hours earlier. I had hoped the level gains might shorten the wait. They had not.
[Blind Call natural recovery complete.]
[Blind Call Charges: 1/1]
I activated it immediately.
There was no reason to save the charge. I could not safely fight, travel, or even test the rifle by myself. More honestly, I had spent three days in a dead stranger’s room and wanted another person to exist near me.
[Blind Call activated.]
[Eligible Grade: D.]
Disappointment flickered. Then another line appeared.
[Previously Encountered Preserved Signature Detected: Liora Venn.]
[Repeat Selection Chance: 5% after eligible D-grade roll.]
One chance in twenty among countless eligible D-grade summons was almost meaningless. Her Preserved Signature had a measurable advantage, no promise attached.
[Preserved Signature Repeat Roll: Successful — Liora Venn.]
[Summon selected.]
[Physical manifestation initiated.]
The connection opened.
For an instant, I sensed sun-warmed stone, rapid footwork, and the rhythm of someone driving a body through repeated knife drills. Liora was mid-lunge. Her left thigh carried only a faint pull where the Scalejaw had cut her days earlier.
She felt the Call and recognized the other end.
"Pretty boy?"
Relief hit so hard that I laughed.
[Dimensional contact established.]
[First Preserved-Signature Reconnection after Anchor establishment confirmed.]
[One-time stabilization window applied.]
[Initial manifestation duration: 72:00:00]
[Return Point: Exact origin place and instant.]
[Origin-Time Elapsed at return: 00:00:00.]
The number startled me. My first Call had lasted minutes, before I possessed an Anchor. This was not the ordinary D-grade duration. The first successful reconnection with a Preserved Signature after establishing my Anchor had triggered a single stabilization window. Later Calls would return to the normal grade-and-level table.
"It’s me," I said. "Three days here. You return to the exact instant you left. Everything you experience stays with you."
[Summon Identified: Liora Venn.]
[Summon Grade: D.]
[Native Level: 21]
[Manifested Level: 7 — Host-Limited]
Space split in front of the barricade.
Liora came through sideways at full speed, training knives drawn and weight committed to a strike. She landed in a low crouch, lead blade extended, tail rigid behind her. Her amber eyes tracked a target that no longer existed.
She wore lighter training leathers than the battered armour from our first Call, sleeveless at the shoulders and darkened with sweat along her spine. The fitted layers held close to her compact, athletic figure, and the warm scent of sun, leather, and exertion reached me before I could stop noticing. The wound on her thigh had closed into a pale line. She straightened without favouring it, then took in the barricade, the ash, the rifle, and finally me.
Filthy clothes. Grey bandages. Less weight than when she had last seen me.
Her ears rose.
Her tail began wagging hard enough to strike the wardrobe.